Sherlock - The Dare
by Aranel Carnilino
Summary: John dares Sherlock to last one day in a mundane job. Sherlock takes him up on it, to his everlasting regret.


**Sherlock: The Dare**

Sherlock scoffed, momentarily distracted from the specimen he was scrutinizing with his pocket magnifier.

"Oh, please, John. Your girlfriend's job is nannying the elderly. All they do is sleep and watch telly. How hard can it be?"

John frowned. "You have no idea what she actually does, do you?"

Sherlock turned to look at his friend, raising an eyebrow. "For one thing, this conversation isn't interesting. And for another, I don't care."

"Which means you don't know. You're ignorant." It sounded a bit like a taunt. Or a challenge. "I suppose you've already forgotten again that the Earth revolves around the Sun."

"I _had_ forgotten that again. Intentionally. Like caretaking, it's a topic that is of no relevance, interest, or importance." Sherlock turned back to his specimen. "Besides, there's a reason caretakers tend to be certain types."

"Types?" John looked mildly peeved. He circled around the table where Sherlock was working. "_Types_? If you mean, kind, caring, compassionate, and patient, then I guess you're right."

"Er, no," said Sherlock testily. "I meant, 'lacking other options.'"

John stared a moment, a bit slack-jawed. "Is that so? Well, if the job's as easy as you say, I dare you to give it a go."

"I have nothing to prove," said Sherlock dismissively, intentionally ignoring his friend's efforts to gain eye contact. "Anyone could do that job."

"_One_ day, Sherlock." John was actually looking genuinely upset. He raised a finger emphatically. "Just one. I honestly don't think you'd make it."

Sherlock finally met John's gaze, a gleam of newfound determination in his eyes. He flicked his pocket magnifier shut. This was going to be fun to rub in John's face for the foreseeable future. "Since you insist," he said crisply, offering a sly smile, "the game is on."

* * *

"So what experience have you had in the medical field?"

Sherlock sat up a little. "I've worked extensively with the mentally challenged," he answered, seriously.

"Oh, in a facility," the hiring manager responded, nodding to herself knowingly, not waiting for him to confirm. "Well, then you've had quite some experience working with, shall we say, _demanding_ clients."

"You've no idea," Sherlock sighed, and his cynicism wasn't wholly feigned. "Sometimes I wonder how I've kept on; they can be so… maddening."

The woman laughed lightly. "Well, don't worry. Most of the clients you'll be working with here will seem like nothing if you've spent any time at all in a mental hospital."

She handed him a clipboard with several attached forms. "And since we've already received clearance on your background check, you've just got to read through these and check the boxes, then sign at the bottom. I can send you out on a shift," she glanced at her computer screen, "tomorrow, if you're interested."

"Hmm," said Sherlock, making a show of scanning the forms. All basic stuff. Dull. He had to mentally shake his head at just how stupid these places were, relying on a system as flawed as a criminal background check database to gauge the suitability of employees. It had been pie hacking into it and pushing his to the top of the list, scrubbed sparkling clean, clear of any and all references to his previous drug habit. Anyone with half a brain could have done it.

As for references? Easy as punch to write them up, complete with fake phone numbers. No one in this industry actually bothered to verify references any more; too much work, not enough time, what with the job being a revolving door.

He'd done plenty of research beforehand. Average time of employment as an in-home caretaker with a given company? Six months. That meant no one was going to devote too much time and effort to a prospective employee; it would be a waste.

Sherlock checked the appropriate boxes in the employee conduct sheet, signed, and handed her the clipboard. "Actually," he said, smiling at her with the trademark charm he could exude at need, "I was hoping I might start today. I'm… somewhat eager to get back into it, if you know what I mean. Is there a shift I might be able to-?" He trailed off.

"Well," the supervisor said, looking a bit puzzled by his enthusiasm, "let me check." She punched a few keys on her laptop, flipped through some pages, then nodded. "So it looks like Anne, one of our other caregivers, won't be able to cover Zara Ford tonight due to illness. I was going to assign someone else, but if you'd like, you're welcome to it. The shift is from 6-12. Companion care, so quite easy. You'll just have to chat and do odd jobs. Nothing too intensive."

"Excellent," said Sherlock, his supply of fake interest running a bit low. "I'll do it." He stood up, heading toward the coat rack by the door.

"Wait," the woman called, puzzled by his abrupt leave-taking, "don't you need her address?"

Sherlock turned. Of course. Ordinary people couldn't just do a quick web search and find addresses, apparently. He nodded, pretending to be embarrassed and awkward. "Oh! Almost forgot. Just… put it on a note."

As he walked down the sidewalk, his big wool coat concealing the black scrubs he'd purchased earlier from a second-hand shop, it struck him as amusing that anyone could possibly be content spending years of their lives doing such dull, thankless work. As he'd told John, it was just "babysitting the elderly." In a society that supported the useless, _someone_ had to do it. Might as well be someone as down and out as the girlfriend John had selected.

He spent the rest of the afternoon sitting in the corner of a coffee-shop, researching the ins and outs of caretaking, and sipping a cappuccino he hadn't had to pay for because he'd done one of the baristas a favor some months previously. It was a rare street in London indeed that didn't host a shop owner who owed him a debt of some kind. His mobile was churning out all kinds of interesting things, like appropriate topics for conversation, how to handle various mental disorders, such as Alzheimer's and Parkinson's, and how _not_ to deal with them. He archived the information in his brain, and at 5:30, took a cab to his client's home in a small, sleepy, well-manicured suburb.

He felt quite prepared to do the job, even though John's tremendous lack of confidence in him on that point worried him a little. But how hard could it be? Make small talk for a few hours. Brew tea. Change the telly channels. Vacuum the rugs. It was just six hours. Sherlock smirked as he opened the metal screen door and rang the doorbell. This was going to be painful, he knew, but it was for a good cause. He couldn't wait to see the look on John's face when he returned and demanded that he honor the wager, a day of successful caretaking under his proverbial belt.

He largely suppressed the instinct to analyze the middle class house, two weeks' unmowed lawn and similarly mundane details around him, the urge to analyze her when she appeared. He knew it would only make him seem distracted, and he meant to do a bang up job of "surviving" his shift. After the third ring, he finally caught the scraping sound of a walker approaching the door and opened his coat a little to reveal the shiny new photo ID tag he'd pinned to the pocket of his scrubs.

The door squeaked open, and the perfect picture of a little old lady appeared in the gap, adjusting her spectacles beneath a pinned up mop of permed grey hair. She seemed a bit startled. Clearly, Sherlock looked nothing like the caretakers she was used to getting.

"Who're you?" Zara asked, peering up at him, her mouth partially open.

"Sherlock Holmes, your new caretaker," he announced, pointing at his ID tag, dipping his head a little. "You'd better let me in so we can get started."

"Started?" The poor woman seemed a bit overwhelmed. "Started with what?"

"With small talking, of course," said Sherlock. "Isn't that why I'm here?"

"Well… I suppose," said Zara, nodding hesitantly. She held up a hand, as if she'd just remembered something notable. "Oh, and making my dinner. I need my medicine by 6:30, so you'll have to get a move on, young man."

"Good, fine." Sherlock started to edge past her, then stopped. "Wait. What medications are you on?" This genuinely interested him, for more than a few reasons.

"It's on the sheet," said Zara, who was turning out to be rather grouchy as far as old ladies went. "They give 'em to me and I take 'em. All there is to it."

Sherlock frowned. How dreadfully easy it would be to euthanize the elderly. Too trusting for their own good. "Fine," he said again, brushing past her.

Nothing very remarkable about Zara or the place she lived. Single story, modestly furnished, two bedrooms, one washroom, small kitchen and living room. By the looks of the faded, worn armchair in the latter, Zara spent most of her time in it. Sherlock cocked an eye at the basket of yarn on a round table beside the chair. So that was an elderly life in a nutshell: knitting in front of the telly. How could people _stand_ it?

He headed into the kitchen, immediately located Zara's garish lime green med minder, and glanced at the pills inside. Vicodin. Interesting. Prescription pain medication, then, but for what?

For being old, apparently. If he knew anything about pharmacies and the people who patronized them, it was that no one's actual health was generally prioritized. Drugs had a way of making you think you needed them, whether true or not.

Zara returned to her chair to resume watching some horrifyingly dull soap opera. Sherlock had to work hard to tune it out. Things would only become more maddening as the night wore on. He decided to occupy himself with the meal. Thoughts of stealthily ordering takeout tempted him, but he knew John would rub it in his face if it was revealed he couldn't actually perform his duties as required. Not that he'd be likely to find out. But Sherlock wasn't doing this just to prove him wrong; he enjoyed a good challenge as much as the next bored sociopath.

So microwave meals it was. Helpfully, Sherlock had prepared such meals plenty of times in the past, so it wasn't long before he had plated the somewhat petrified-looking slab of meat, slathered in greasy gravy, beside a golf ball sized mound of watery, reconstituted mashed potatoes. The effect, even cooked and arranged best as Sherlock could manage, was repulsive. But standards for the elderly were lax.

"Mrs. Ford, your dinner's ready," he called sweetly from the kitchen. If he was being honest, his compulsion to over-perform was spurred in part by a desire not only to successfully survive the day, but also to earn some sort of recognition that would place his success beyond all ability of John to contest.

"Just set it on the table," said Zara, evidently unimpressed by his kind manner.

That peeved Sherlock a little, but he did as instructed, setting his client's med minder beside the plate with a glass of water.

Zara had scarcely tucked into her rather disappointing meal before Sherlock had - out of sheer boredom - analyzed everything in her kitchen and living area, and deduced her entire life story. Husband gone, not dead. She wanted nothing to do with him. No mementos left behind outside of a photo of them - much younger - and their kids. Children didn't drop by often, and were busy. Photos in the entryway were of the grown kids and their families. Few of them all together.

Zara had been a secretary during World War 2, and wanted everyone to know. She'd never been much to look at, even at her best. She appreciated ice cream far too much, further underscored by excessive flabbiness and no less than seven different varieties of the sugary substance in her freezer. No one appreciated her knitted creations, as evinced by intended gifts for kids and grandchildren being mistakenly "left behind." Understandable, really. Avocado green and burnt sienna. Not a winning combination.

All so inane, really. Sherlock found himself checking his mobile repeatedly, each time increasingly dismayed that the minutes seemed to be crawling by at roughly the same pace as the mechanisms by which Lestrade's brain operated.

"Get my ice cream," said Zara from the next room, which was separated from the kitchen by a partition wall. "Chocolate Thunder tonight."

Sherlock acquiesced in between escaping to his mind palace to work through a few less-than-interesting cases he'd had on the docket for a while. About the equivalent, he'd supposed, of the most bottom of the barrel tasks one would address only at the behest of the most crippling boredom.

He had a sinking feeling John was right. He wasn't going to make it. No. John _couldn't_ win this, he _mustn't_ be allowed to win this. Unbearable.

He'd just finished solving the three cases he'd put off, sending a couple texts to Lestrade, when Zara roared for her bowl to be cleared away.

"Not very talkative are you, lad?"

"Hm?" Sherlock hadn't been paying attention, but deduced she was put off by his silence. Ah, yes. Small talk. He'd forgotten. Quickly reviewing the file he'd made, he smiled as charmingly as possible whilst stacking the dishes and getting ice cream on his sleeve.

"Oh, not at all. Shall we discuss the weather? Dreadfully mild of late, wouldn't you say?"

He moved quickly back to the kitchen and submerged the dishes in the hot, soapy water he'd prepared, glancing at Zara through the opening in the partition wall.

"I don't know. Never go outside anymore."

"Statistically speaking, that can have a detrimental effect on your health." Sherlock scrubbed the dishes calmly, trying, for once, to consider the impact of what he was saying before he said it. Small talk wasn't about being honest and to the point. It was about making uncontroversial statements so no one would leave the conversation feeling offended or slighted. No actual exchange of significant information would occur, but both parties would somehow feel something had been accomplished. Funny how the average person's brain worked.

"Although, by staying indoors, you also drastically cut down on the risk of, say, being struck by a car, bus, train, bicycle, or human stampede. Maybe it's for the best."

Zara stared at him blankly. This wasn't going well. Aha, a distraction. That's what they needed. Shows. People liked talking about their favorite telly nonsense.

"So, erm, couldn't help but noticing that, erm, show you were watching. Is that something you watch every day?"

Zara nodded. "Only thing I have to look forward to. Kids never visit anymore."

His earlier deductions confirmed, Sherlock lowered his face to conceal a look of triumph. "Pity. You had so many of them. And your husband… is he-?"

"Dead. To me, at least." The bitterness practically dripped from her voice, and her posture stiffened. "Cheated on me with some harlot he met in America. I saw the photo."

Ah, normal life. These were the things that most people built their narratives around? To place so much emphasis on these exclusive… well, it nearly nauseated him just thinking about it, but he couldn't let on how little sympathy he had. He had to play the part. Draining the water from the sink, he dried his hands with a towel and stepped around the partition.

Zara appeared lost in thought.

Sherlock crossed his arms, leaning against the wall. "Interesting. What was your husband doing in America?"

The old woman looked up suddenly, her eyes flaring with buried anger. "Business trip. I should've known the bastard would forget all about me the moment another woman flung herself at him."

"You said there was a photo." Sherlock idly carried on the conversation, only momentarily considering that Zara was probably looking for support and agreement rather than the rehashing of painful details. "What sort of photo?"

"In the newspaper." Zara snorted in disgust.

Sherlock withheld a scoff. He thought he was becoming rather good at this "small talk" stuff, much as it irked him. "Do you have a copy of that particular paper?"

Zara was shocked, or attempted to appear so. "Why would I keep… something like that? I wouldn't keep a picture of that bastard around!"

"You clearly have it. Where is it?"

Zara looked at him as though he'd lost his mind. She probably couldn't have been blamed, Sherlock realized. He was slipping back into detective mode. He'd have to backpedal to salvage the situation.

"I'm only joking, Mrs. Ford." He forced a chuckle that he hoped sounded good-natured. "I'm sure you'd never keep mementos of that cheating bastard around."

Zara seemed, for the moment, placated. "No one's business, anyway." She harrumphed. "Get me another bowl of ice cream. Strawberry Symphony this time."

Sherlock mentally heaved a sigh of relief. That had been rather close. If he were forcefully evicted from his client's house, that would certainly constitute a failure. John couldn't win; there'd be no end to it if he did.

At the same time, the boredom of retrieving ice cream, hiding in the kitchen solving the worst and dullest in his backlog of cases, and waiting to retrieve the empty dish was driving him half mad. He had to do _something_.

"Just, uh, ducking down the hall a moment," he explained as Zara's hawk-like glance landed on him when he rounded the partition into the dining area. "Have to fetch the hoover."

He grinned in wicked triumph when she only grunted in reply, turning back to watch her revolting soap opera. He was home free.

It was child's play locating the desired newspaper clipping, tucked away in the bottom drawer of a desk in her far bedroom. She'd even laminated it, for no apparent reason, keeping it in a Manila envelope with some other photos of the "cheating bastard."

Sherlock inspected the black and white photo, read the accompanying article, and did a few quick searches on his phone. He chuckled, shaking his shaggy head.

"Oh, Zara," he said, tutting. "This is all rather embarrassing. Not to worry. I'll break the news to you gently. And most definitely after I'm safely away."

The rest of the shift proceeded only slightly less painfully than before, the satisfaction of his finding stamped firmly upon his face even as he hoovered the carpets and suffered through another agonizing round of small talk. He couldn't decide whether that was worse than the appalling goings-on in the soap opera, of which she watched back-to-back episodes because she had the entire twelfth season in a VHS boxed set.

When 9 PM finally rolled around, it was all Sherlock could do not to sprint headlong for the door. No. He'd survived this long; he wasn't about to slip up now.

"And I guess I'm off," he announced softly, exuding what last bit of charm he could muster. "I hope you've enjoyed my service this evening, Mrs. Ford."

She grunted in reply, but as Sherlock had created and mentally cataloged a detailed spectrum of her nonverbal responses, he decided this was actually a particularly agreeable sound.

Slipping an unmarked envelope into her mail holder on the counter, he strode quickly to the door, hoping she wouldn't attempt to detain him. Thankfully, she did not.

One might have thought he'd just escaped from prison, judging by the look on his face. Sherlock couldn't decide whether that might've been preferable.

* * *

"I honestly don't believe it." John was as incredulous as Sherlock had hoped.

The detective smirked, hanging up his coat and scarf. "There'd be no point in misleading you. It certainly wouldn't be as satisfying."

"Fine. Good." John still looked like he was in some amount of shock. He was seated in his chair, where he'd clearly been writing - or attempting to write - another entry for his blog, as he tended to do every week on Tuesday nights (assuming a case didn't conflict). Creatures and their habits. Sherlock saw that his tea had gone cold, which meant John had been distracted. _Very_ distracted. So he'd been fretting, quite possibly the entire day, over what Sherlock was doing.

"So… I'm assuming you behaved yourself." John closed his laptop and cleared a spot on the end table for it. "I mean, you managed not to turn her house into a science lab. Or conduct experiments on her."

"Is that what you thought would happen?" Sherlock scoffed. "You honestly thought me incapable of checking my impulses for a mere four-hour shift?"

John made an amused humming sound. "I suppose I should be happy to be proved wrong. But the agency won't be so pleased when they realize you wasted their time."

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. "Not my problem. That industry is a revolving door, and for good reason. I am never, ever doing anything of that sort again."

Now it was John's turn to look pleased. "That bad, was it?"

Sherlock lowered his face in his hands, a rather over-dramatic gesture, but oddly warranted. "Worse than torture. Worse than being at a crime scene with Anderson. Worse than two weeks of missing cat cases."

John raised his eyebrows, resisting the urge to laugh. It wouldn't be decent, considering what his friend had suffered to win a dare.

"The only redeeming factor was that I solved her case." Sherlock spoke softly, mostly to himself. He collapsed on the sofa with a groan, reaching to pull the cord on the floor lamp that was shining annoyingly into his eyes. Why the hell did John always have to turn on every single light in the flat?

"Her case?" John questioned, frowning.

"She divorced her husband, based on a photo in a newspaper."

"What?"

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. "Are you saying that because you're surprised, or because you legitimately didn't hear me?"

"No, Sherlock. I'm saying that because it's ridiculous. What kind of photo?"

"The scandalous kind," said Sherlock wearily. "The article wasn't even about the husband; he was in the background. A truck carrying priceless works of art, bound for a museum, broke down in the street adjacent to where a rather mundane feature was being done on a restaurant. The pieces of artwork were removed and put onto a replacement truck. Our 'cheating bastard' saw his chance to osculate someone more attractive than his wife, more specifically, a wax figure of one Marilyn Monroe. The photo was taken, and from a distance, looks completely plausible. One of the husband's business partners spotted it in the paper and sent it to the wife."

John seemed at a loss. "And the husband didn't... explain himself?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I'm sure he tried. Judging by the disposition of my one-time client, however, I doubt she would have listened once the matter was settled in her mind. Jealousy. It's never been a particularly rational vice."

John shook his head, reaching for his cup of cold tea. "Well, you truly are a marvel, Sherlock. But did you… tell her?"

The consulting detective smiled. "Let's just say it's probably for the best I won't be caring for her again. But who knows? Perhaps they'll rekindle their romance. She did seem rather fixated on those rubbish soap operas. Maybe she'll get a happy ending after all." He sat up suddenly, fixing John with a pointed look.

"All that being said, I pardon you your end of the bargain."

"How do you mean?"

"Your girlfriend," said Sherlock, cracking his knuckles. "I may have prevailed, but I wouldn't wish that job on anyone."

"I saved you the trouble," said John, looking suddenly dismal.

Sherlock's brows twitched fractionally upward. "Ended it already?"

John nodded unhappily. "Mmhm. She was nice enough about it. They always are."

"Probably decided she didn't need yet another grown infant to look after."

The harassed doctor narrowed his eyes, then subsided with a sigh. "Well, it takes one to know one."

The End


End file.
